


I'll Cater With All the Birds That I Can Kill

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Animal Transformation, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-26 05:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18276803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: Waking up as a cat really could be worse for Clarke. She doesn't know why it happens, but she at least knows that magic was real and curses that turned you into a cat were a thing, so it's not as terrifying as it could be.But she doesn't feel like she really gets a handle on it until some guy finds her in the park and takes her home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing our "anime Steve made me watch" theme week, this one is inspired by "My Roommate Is a Cat," which doesn't actually involve a human turning into an animal, Brit just thought that it would make a good AU where Clarke got turned into a cat. And we all know I can't resist an AU where Clarke gets turned into a cat.
> 
> I was thinking about waiting until the second chapter was done and posting both together, but today is actually the four-year anniversary of the first fic I posted in this fandom, and I do like celebrating that when I can! The second chapter should be up in a few days.

The stages of being cursed are, Clarke discovers when she wakes up one morning as a _fucking cat_ , very similar to the stages of grief.

Denial is a gimme. While she was aware that being cursed was an option, which put her ahead of most people, there's a difference between knowing that people could, in theory, be turned into animals and thinking it would ever happen to her. It's an _effort_ , cursing someone into cat form. And Clarke hadn't thought she'd pissed anyone off that much recently, if she ever had. 

So she tells herself it must be a dream, it must be a mistake, that it's going to wear off soon, that it's anything but what it is.

When she fails to wake herself up or change back, though, she moves onto anger, and she at least makes that one productive. She doesn't want to destroy her own possessions or starve to death, so she channels her rage into throwing herself against the screen in her bedroom window until it pops out, and then she shreds it, just for good measure.

She doesn't really have anyone to bargain with, so it's mostly bargaining with a higher being she doesn't actually believe in, asking for this to be one of those twenty-four-hour curses, promising to be a better person in some indefinable way, apologizing to whoever she pissed off so much that they turned her into a fucking cat and promising not to kill them if they turn her back.

Then it starts to rain, and in no time she's cold and hungry and miserable and firmly into the _depression_ stage of grief, which is where she stays for a long time. She moved to the city only a few months ago, and she doesn't really have much of a support system, certainly not a support system that could help with her being changed into a cat. She's not going to go to her boss or her last one-night stand and try to communicate her identity. She doesn't have a single good way to deal with this situation, doesn't even have an idea of where to _start_.

But acceptance comes, eventually, when it's been two days and her stomach is empty and grumbling. Whatever happened, whatever caused this, it's her life now, and her options are to figure out how to deal with it or die, and there's no way she's _dying_ of being a cat.

So she's going to deal.

It's still not easy. She may be a cat, but her brain is still human and still wants to do things the human way. She has to force herself to eat things she'd never touch, left to her own devices, rooting around in garbage cans, letting her instincts take over as she stalks birds and small rodents. It's gross, but she doesn't have a lot of other options. She doesn't know the city well enough to figure out where the witches are, but she figures she'll find them sooner or later. All she has to do is survive long enough to get cured or break the curse.

It's still not a particularly _good_ existence, which is probably why the smell of sushi in the park hits her so hard. It's the first food she's encountered in _two fucking months_ that appeals to not only her cat stomach but her human self, which is probably why she's reckless in going after it. Plus, she has an advantage that ordinary cats lack: she understands people. She knows, for a fact, that the guy sitting on the bench has even odds of shooing her away if she goes begging, but she also knows that humans aren't actually prepared for a cat to jump onto them out of nowhere and steal their shit. She can be in and out with a piece of fish before he knows what hit him.

The first part of the plan goes off without a hitch. She bounds up, jumps into the guy's lap, ignores his _oof_ of pain to grab the biggest piece of fish she can see. It would be the perfect crime, except that there's nowhere for her to _go_ with the fish; there's a fountain on the other side of the bench she didn't notice, and she's already moving that direction. She could turn around, but she'd look stupid and, really, it's not like the guy is going to take his fish back, at this point. It's been in her mouth.

Besides, she's a cat. She's cute. So she revises her plan and turns around to curl onto the bench next to the guy, purring up a storm as she tucks into the fish. She thinks it's tuna, pretty high quality, too. She finishes it in three bites and doesn't even have time to start licking her paw before there's another piece in front of her.

"Go ahead," says the guy, when she just sort of stares at it. "You look like you need it more than I do."

Even if she could, Clarke wouldn't want to argue with him. The fish is the best thing she's eaten in her life, it feels like, and every time she finishes one piece, he gives her another. It's so fucking _good_ , she can't--

She can't pay attention to anything else, which is how the guy gets a hand under her ribs, lifting her up gently as she finishes her last piece.

"It's okay," he says. He's got a deep, rumbling voice, but he pitches it soft and soothing. "It's okay. It's not far." She starts to squirm, but he adds, "Trust me, my place is nice. There's more fish."

Getting taken in by a kindly stranger had been something Clarke had been thinking of, off and on. It seemed like a better prospect than living on the street, and she might be able to use the computer or something to do some incognito-mode browsing to try to figure out what had happened to her, assuming she could get her paws to cooperate. The biggest stumbling block had been finding someone who wouldn't bring her to an animal shelter, which seemed way too risky. And this guy could be lying, obviously, but she is a cat. He has no reason to think she understands him, so the tone of his voice matters a lot more than the content. He's reassuring her, but he's reassuring her that he's taking her home. 

She nuzzles into his chest and purrs.

"Okay, you're good with that one, huh?" He gives her head a scratch. "Yeah, I thought so. No collar, huh?"

Clarke gets the impulse to talk to animals, but it's weird to be on the other side of it. She feels as if she should be responding, but there's nothing to say. She doesn't have a collar, as he can plainly see. She also doesn't have human vocal chords.

"I need something to eat before my meeting anyway," the guy goes on. "You ate my lunch."

That one seems like his fault, but Clarke can't say much about that. Instead, she turns her attention to the guy himself. He's got her cradled in his arms, which are warm and firm. She can feel corded muscle under her skin, both on his arms and his chest; he seems to be in pretty good shape. He's wearing slacks and black shoes, fairly unremarkable work clothes, and he has a quick, even gait.

She cranes her head up to actually see his face, and that one is harder. The angle is all wrong, so his chin blocks most of his features; she can tell he's clean-shaven, with tan skin and dark curly hair, but that's about it. 

"I really hope you're house-trained," he mutters, and Clarke purrs harder.

*

The guy's name is Bellamy Blake, which she figures out by jumping up on his counter and reading some of his mail. He shoos her down almost immediately, which is probably fair, and then scoops her up and brings her into his bathroom.

"I'm not going to have time to pick anything up until after this meeting," he says. "So if you're going to pee just do it somewhere easy to clean, deal?"

He closes the door, and Clarke immediately runs over to scratch it and yowl. She appreciates his taking her in and all, but he didn't even give her _water_. And the fish made her thirsty.

Luckily, he's back in a few minutes with a muttered, "Jesus Christ." But he also has a bowl with canned tuna and another empty bowl he fills up with water in the sink, so as random humans go, he's a very good one.

He gives her a scratch behind the ears as she starts to lap up the water. "Okay, uh--I'll see if I have time to go online and look for your owner while I'm waiting for Monty, okay? But I'll get some stuff in case I don't find anything too. Just sit tight."

She's not expecting to see him again before he leaves, but he's back again about twenty minutes later to put a folded up towel on the ground, presumably for a bed, and a couple balls of wadded up tin foil.

To make sure he knows that the gesture is appreciated, she goes over and curls up in the towel, purring up a storm. Her eyes are closed, but she hears a soft snort of laughter, feels his hand giving her head one more scratch. "Okay, see you later, cat."

The bathroom isn't a particularly great hangout, but Clarke really is grateful for the towel. By her increasingly questionable count, she's been a cat for about two months, and she hasn't really been sleeping very well since then. It's less the discomfort of sleeping outside and more paranoia; she's a predator, she knows, but there are still plenty of threats around. She's had dogs barking at her, other cats chasing her out of their territory, scooters and bikes coming out of nowhere, to say nothing of cars. It's a huge relief to just be somewhere safe, quiet, and comfortable, and even if she decides she has to bail because Bellamy can't keep her, she'll at least have gotten some good sleep out of it.

She doesn't know how long she sleeps, but the sound of the toilet flushing is what finally wakes her, and she startles up. The light is on and Bellamy is washing his hands, the water on low, as if he's trying not to wake her. Outside, she can see it's gotten dark. For all she knows, it's the middle of the night.

She stands and stretches, letting out a mrowr so Bellamy knows she's awake.

"Hey," he says, his voice still carefully soft. "Thanks for not shitting on any of my stuff."

She bumps against his legs, like she's seen real cats do, and he picks her up and scratches her behind the ears. "Good news, I got you some stuff."

She hadn't gotten much of a look at the apartment before, but it's pretty nice. He seems to have the whole second floor of a small house, and it's all hardwood floors and windows, probably bright and sunny during the day. He brings her into what looks like a bedroom, but it's pretty much empty aside from the cat stuff and some pictures on the wall. Maybe he just moved in and hasn't unpacked yet.

He shows her the litter box he set up and the station where he set up food and water. To her disappointment, he's gotten her some dry kibble instead of more tuna, but it's probably the thought that counts. Plus, he seems like a softie; if she refuses to eat the kibble, he'll probably try something else.

The last thing he shows her is a cardboard scratching post, which she figures will be another one of those nice gestures that she'd appreciate more if she was a real cat, but then she gets a whiff of--something. Something she's definitely never smelled before, something that makes her whole body go haywire with the need to get closer to it.

Bellamy chuckles as she rams her face into the scratching post. "Oh good. The guy at the pet store said not all cats like catnip."

_Catnip_. That explains some things. 

"Have fun," says Bellamy, and Clarke's having so much fun already that she barely even notices when he leaves.

*

She wakes up the next morning and gives her scratching post a wide berth. Getting high as a cat was definitely fun, but she can't just spend her whole day hallucinating and running around Bellamy's house. She's got investigating to do.

Without a phone or watch, it's been tough for Clarke to check the time, but it seems like late morning, judging from how how much sun is streaming in the windows and where it's coming from. She's expecting that Bellamy will already be at work, but when she pads into the kitchen she finds him sitting at the island, doing something on his laptop.

Maybe it's Saturday? It's not like she's been doing great figuring out what day of the week it is since she transformed.

She weaves her way between the legs of Bellamy's stool, mewling hopefully, and Bellamy startles.

"Oh, hey, cat."

At some point, she assumes he'll come up with a name for her, but his just calling her _cat_ is kind of endearing. She can't really get a read on him, if she's honest; he doesn't seem upset to have her, but he also doesn't seem particularly thrilled, for all he adopted her with no hesitation. She remembers when Wells found a stray puppy when they were kids and it was basically the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. Bellamy seems to think of it as mostly an act of mundane charity.

Case in point: he reaches down, gives her one quick pet, and then stops paying her any mind. 

Not that she minds, really. She takes the opportunity to explore his place a little, first the kitchen and living room, and then the place she's really interested in, his bedroom. By this point, she's gotten to see more of him, enough to have a guess at his age--mid-to-late twenties, a few years older than she is--and a sort of general read of his personality. He's handsome without putting too much effort in, working a kind of absent-minded genius vibe that probably gets him laid as regularly as he wants. 

His room has the same kind of feeling to it. She'd assumed, based on the number of books in his living room, that all his books were out there, but he seems to be trying to single-handedly keep print media alive. There are shelves lining the walls of his room, too, taking up most of the room that isn't his bed. He's got some laundry strewn around and the bed isn't made, but it's more cluttered than messy. He could get it tidy in about ten minutes if he had to.

She jumps up onto the bed and gets hit with a strong whiff of his scent, shampoo and soap and earthy boy scent. Weirdly, it makes her feel welcome here, safe, and she thinks she'd rather sleep in here than on the nice cushion he put in the other room. That didn't smell like anything.

He's got a clock radio on his bedside table that gives her all the information she's looking for about time: Thursday at 10:47, which just raises more questions. 

For a few seconds, she just sits on the bed, twitching her tail, trying to think of her next move. She can't really try to use his do research while he's here, and she doesn't want to escape and give up on a good situation unless she has a firm idea of where she's going. Running off into the wilderness might seem like a good idea if she hadn't already been in the wilderness; now she's into creature comforts. She regretted leaving her own apartment so quickly in under a day. She's not making that mistake again.

Maybe he's in grad school. He left the house yesterday, so he'll definitely do it again. He has to get groceries and stuff. She can figure something out. And she saw screens in several of his windows; if she has to escape, she can.

There are a lot worse places than this to spend a few days, if it comes to that.

Once she's finished exploring the oddly empty apartment, Clarke goes back to the kitchen. Bellamy is exactly where she left him, although he's gained a mug, so he probably moved at some point. He's got a day of stubble on his cheeks and his glasses are pushed up on his forehead like they were doing him more harm than good. 

It took Clarke a few weeks to get used to her new jumping range, but by now the calculations are pretty easy. She lines up and leaps onto the stool next to Bellamy, making him jump, and from there onto his lap.

"Uh, hi," he says. 

She's seen a lot of cats, so she knows what she can get away with. She turns up the purring as she paces over his legs, ostensibly trying get comfortable but mostly because she wants to see what he's working on. It's definitely a word document, but the formatting looks wrong for a paper. The paragraphs are too short, and there are quotation marks, so it must be--

His hand comes down on her back, a firm pat that's more to push her down than to show affection. "If you're going to be a lap cat, can you at least sit down?" he grumbles.

It's not as if his lap is a bad place to be. She sits up straight, facing the laptop, which is definitely weird, but that's another advantage of being a cat. Cats are always weird.

"This is what we're doing?" he grumbles. "Fine."

And it really does seem to be fine with him. He repositions a little so he can type without bothering her, but then he gets back to work, occasionally taking a break to scratch her head. It feels good and she does want to not be too suspicious, so when he goes too long without petting her she butts her head against his arm, which he seems to find cute. Clarke hasn't gotten a great look at her cat self's face yet, but she thinks she's probably adorable.

Before she knows it, the sound of typing and Bellamy's even breathing lulls her back to sleep.

She can always figure out what to do about the curse tomorrow.

*

Despite her best efforts, that ends up being her routine at her new home. Bellamy leaves the apartment only rarely, and never for very long. When he goes, he tends to close his laptop, and Clarke never really has time to do any more than try to get it open before she gets paranoid and closes it again. 

So mostly, she's been eating--just to be fair, she did _try_ the kibble, but it was gross, and she howled by her bowl until Bellamy got her more tuna--sleeping, getting high on catnip, and making sure to be cute enough that Bellamy won't throw her out. And, when she's not busy with any of those other things, she's trying to figure out his deal.

He seems to switch between writing what she thinks is a (honestly pretty good) sci-fi novel and working as some kind of online tutor. He reads and comments on academic papers, and he seems to have chats going with both friends and clients, most of the time. 

At least, she hopes they're friends. When she can get in close enough to read without raising suspicions, she'll see things like _how are you holding up_ , which doesn't seem like something a client would write, and his standard response of _fine_.

Her best guess so far is that he had a roommate he had a thing for and it went wrong so they moved out. It explains the emptiness of the apartment, the reason he had a spare room just waiting to be filled with cat stuff. And there is something melancholy about Bellamy, some aura of loneliness and loss that still seems raw.

Clarke does her best to help. If and when she gets out of this, she's going to pay him back for the room and board and cat supplies, but in the meantime, she figures she can just be a good pet. Which is, admittedly, a little weird, but she sleeps at the foot of his bed and purrs when he pets her and keeps his lap warm when he's sitting for more than a few minutes. It's not _hard_ , but she does think she's a pretty good cat. Even if she doesn't want to be.

Thanks to his bedside clock, she knows it's been exactly two weeks since he brought her home when he puts on his coat and says, "Okay, I've got a meeting with my editor. Don't wreck the house." He gives her ears a scratch. "See you tonight."

It's only one, so if he's not planning to be home until tonight, she's got _hours_ to herself. She can actually get some stuff done.

And she really needs the time. She's gotten pretty good at opening the laptop, but trying to enter his password with her paws and nose takes a few tries, and then she has to get an incognito browser open, which involves a lot of coordination, and then she's faced with the realization that she has no idea where she's going from here.

Clarke is not a witch. Clarke's mother is a witch, and she spent many years of Clarke's life hoping that Clarke had the gift, but she just doesn't. She can put together basic spells, but she doesn't have the magic to power them, and that means that she's not really a part of the community. Her mother brought her to the coven at home, and she joined the one at her college too, but she hasn't looked up the local one because she doesn't really feel like she belongs. She really only has one resource to call on her, no matter how much she doesn't want to.

So, after what feels like twenty years, she gets an incognito email open and manages to type out what is by far the worst email she's ever written:

_hi mom its clark i'm cursed cat_

_i m cat_

_stayin wt guy hes nice stealing his comp he doesn know i,m humn_

_pleas he;p_

On the one hand, it's terrible. On the other hand, it's probably the best she's going to do, and she thinks it gets the idea across. And she has no idea how she'd ever manage to edit for more coherency. Hitting the backspace causes more problems than it solves.

She sends the email and checks the time; finds it's not even that three. Ideally, she'd stay by the laptop, waiting for her mother's reply, but the effort of getting the email sent really took it out of her. Plus, she's crepuscular now; just because she thinks she should sleep all night and be awake all day, it doesn't mean her cat body agrees.

At least she manages to log herself out of Chrome and close the window without fucking up any of Bellamy's tabs in the process, which is a major accomplishment. She closes the laptop, jumps off the island, and pads over to the sofa, where Bellamy has left a hoodie bundled on one of the cushions.

Definitely enough productivity for one afternoon.

*

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you got a cat!"

Clarke is jolted out of sleep by an unfamiliar voice, and when she blinks her eyes open she sees Bellamy has actual friends with him, to her surprise. They're both guys, and one of them is already coming over, kneeling down by the couch and offering her his hand to sniff. 

"Yeah, this doesn't scream third-life-crisis at all," says the other guy, still by the door with Bellamy.

"Shut up," says Bellamy, without heat. "It jumped into my lap and stole my lunch, what was I supposed to do?"

"Take it to a shelter."

"It's a picky eater and it's comfortable around people," Bellamy explains, as the guy near Clarke starts scratching her ears. He's not quite as good at is as Bellamy is, but affection is affection. "I think it's got to be someone's pet. I put some fliers up."

"So you want to keep it but you're pretending you're trying to find the owner," says beanie guy.

"Have you named it?" asks the other one.

"No, because I might not be keeping it."

"Dude, just name the cat."

"You're not my dad, Miller."

"Did you check the sex?" asks the guy who's petting her, not-Miller. Clarke thinks the answer should be obvious from the way Bellamy keeps calling her _it_ , but it's not as if she minds. She'd rather be called it than have anyone checking out her genitalia.

"I'm not forcing the cat to confirm to the gender binary," says Bellamy. "It's a cat."

"Sounds about right," says Miller. "Where's your beer?"

Apparently, the plan is for the three of them to hang out and play video games, although the guy who was petting her--Bellamy's editor, whose name she eventually figures out is Monty--is more interested in petting her than actually participating in the games. In theory, there's nothing wrong with that, but she's still a little worried he's going to try to force the gender issue, so she finally hisses and runs off to sulk in her bedroom until the strangers go away.

She'd say the cat brain was taking over, but it's pretty much exactly what she did every time her roommate had friends she didn't like over. This isn't really new behavior for her.

She's dozing by the time Bellamy's friends leave, but the sound of the light switch in his room gets her attention. She scampers in right as he's pulling on pajama pants, and he smiles as he flops onto the bed.

"Yeah, I can get too much of people too."

He sounds genuinely exhausted, so she sticks her head under his hand, encouraging him to pet her. As usual, he doesn't need much prompting, and the two of them lie in companionable silence for a while.

When his hand stops, she assumes he's fallen asleep, but instead he says, "Miller's right, you probably could use a name."

It's not something Clarke is particularly concerned about--she really doesn't care what he calls her--until he actually starts listing possibilities, at which point she realizes there are plenty of names she'd actually hates. "Something mythological, maybe? Sphinx or Manticore or Chimera. Or, I don't know. Fuck, I hate coming up with names. I already have to do it enough for work."

Clarke yawns, which she hopes counts as a _no_ , and he sighs and sits up. "It's not like it's _hard_. I named my sister, I can name you. Let's see, uh--Adams," he says, looking at one of his bookshelves. "Or Douglas, I guess. Isaac Asimov. Peter Beagle. Ray Bradbury. Lois McMaster Bujold. Any of those working for you?"

Clarke flops onto his back. He's on his sci-fi shelf, which means he might actually hit Clarke, depending on what he's got on there. She's kind of curious. 

"Octavia Butler, definitely not. Kristin Cashorne, Becky Chambers, Arthur C. Clarke--" She meows her approval, making Bellamy startle. "Yeah?" He sits down next to her and scratches her ears. "I guess you do kind of look like an Arthur. Arthur works."

Oh well. Maybe she'll poop in his shoe.

*

Being named Arthur isn't the cause of Clarke's bad mood, she's pretty sure. It's not actually worse than being called _cat_. Honestly, it's a little funny. He was _so close_ to somehow actually hitting her name, and then he fumbled in the endzone. 

Mostly, she's getting annoyed with her whole situation. In a way, it had been easier before she'd been adopted, when she just was worried about survival, when she hadn't had all this downtime where she wasn't doing _anything_. Being a house cat isn't bad, but it's not being a herself, and it's not letting her get back to being herself either.

Bellamy clearly notices she's pissed off and takes it with pretty good grace. She shreds a roll of paper towels and he yells at her, which is fair, and throws up on his bathroom floor, which is admittedly an accident, but he still cleans it up and strokes her back and asks if she's feeling okay.

He's too nice. He's so nice it stops being helpful and becomes one more thing that's annoying her. Seriously, how dare he?

Her general irritability is why, nine days and zero long-term trips out of the house after Bellamy's meeting, she decides it's worth it to try using his computer during the night. 

The thought had obviously occurred to her before. Over the days when she'd been waiting for him to just fucking _leave_ , she'd toyed with the idea of booting up the computer while he was asleep, but she'd been worried about fucking it up and waking him. Bellamy's a pretty deep sleeper, but if she knocks over his laptop, he's going to wake up and murder her, and she wouldn't blame him.

But now she's used the laptop successfully once. She knows how to do it, and Bellamy's alarm doesn't go off until 8:30 on weekdays. She's got a full seven hours, so she can be careful. Make sure she doesn't break anything.

And she really does need to check her email. It's so much worse, knowing her mom could be saying things. Knowing she could have a solution.

She leaves the bed and makes her way down the moonlit hallway to the kitchen. His laptop is on the coffee table instead of the island, but that's no problem. She noses the top open and gets the password in only a few tries, now that she's done it before. The laptop whirs to life, and she hisses at it softly, warning it against waking him.

Clarke gave up on reading over Bellamy's shoulder pretty soon after she started living with him, once she'd figured out his password and his apparent occupation. It wasn't worth raising his suspicions to get more information, especially not when she doesn't really need to know anything more about him. Sometimes she'll see things in passing, but she hasn't really been paying attention to the specifics. Bellamy seems to live on his computer; of course he's always doing things on there.

But when the computer starts up and she's confronted with an email draft, she can't help snooping. Bellamy feels like an unanswered question, a mystery waiting to be solved. He seems like such a good guy to be so alone, and she does need to know why that is.

The email is addressed to Octavia Blake, and the subject is simply _Just want to talk_.

Maybe he's divorced? Maybe his wife moved into another room when they separated, and she finally just left. That would have been really tough on him.

_Hey, O_ , he's written. _I know you had to leave and I'm not trying to convince you to come back. I got the message loud and clear. That's not why I'm emailing you. No matter what else happens, you're always going to be my sister, and I'll always love you. I'm sorry I didn't realize how hard the last few years were for you, and I wish_

The cursor is still blinking at the end of the thought, an incomplete sentiment that he apparently doesn't know how to finish. It's a shame; she'd like to know what he wishes for.

Clarke settles back on her haunches, rereading the short message as she slots the new information into place. He had mentioned a sister when he was looking for names, said if he could name his sister, he could name a cat. And he'd snorted when he came to Octavia Butler on his shelves.

Does he always just go to authors when he needs to name something? He's such a dork.

She goes to get her incognito browser up, but she's a little distracted. Bellamy probably shouldn't even be top ten on her list of worries right now, but somehow he keeps pushing in there, an itch she can't shake. She can't do anything to help him right now, but she wants to. She wants to fix herself and then come back and figure out how to fix him too.

She wants to be there for him, and suddenly, she is.

Since she's just sitting on the couch, the transformation doesn't break anything. She was a cat and then suddenly she's a human again, like some great cosmic light switch was flipped. As suddenly as the curse came, it's gone, and she's naked in a stranger's living room, on his laptop, in the middle of the night.

"Shit," she breathes.

At least she can talk again.

Her incognito window is still there, but she uses it to pull up google maps instead, to find a route from here back to her own apartment. She doesn't have any money, but it's only a forty-minute walk. She could make it there and--

Be locked out of her apartment. She disappeared off the face of the earth and missed at least two rent cycles; her apartment probably won't even be her apartment anymore. She hadn't lived there long enough for her landlord to start to like her. He'll just think she's a flake.

When she switches over to her email, she does see some angry messages from said landlord, a bunch of reminders from her credit card, all sorts of shitty stuff she's going to have to deal with now that she's back to normal. Some of her friends have sent messages asking how she's liking her new job, and if she goes over to her work email, she's sure her boss will have fired her.

Just for fun, she googles _Clarke Griffin missing person_ and finds her mom did at least come up with a "sudden family emergency" excuse, albeit two months late. It won't save her job, given the total radio silence, but at least the cops won't be looking for her.

Fuck, she's going to have so much to do.

Abby has sent five replies to Clarke's message, which seems about right, maybe even a bit low. With actual human hands, it's at least easy to check them all, one of those things she used to take for granted and definitely won't for at least a year. A few months as a cat is definitely going to do some long-term damage.

Most of Abby's advice isn't relevant anymore, now that Clarke is naked and slowly freezing on a stranger's couch, but there is one thing that will actually help: an address and telephone number for a local witch who knows something about curse-breaking. Not that she needs that anymore, but the abrupt end of the curse is concerning in and of itself, and she'd feel better if someone could tell her why it happened and promise that it won't happen again. And the witch will probably be able to help her get some clothes and get her stuff back.

Still, she finds herself dawdling. She emails her mother to let her know what happened. She looks at the angry emails she's gotten, finds out she was evicted before she ever got in touch with Abby but her stuff is at least in storage, puts together the actual timeline of how long she's been like this--almost three months, all told--and at what point each part of her life went wrong, and then finally checks how to get to the witch's house.

But it still feels shitty, leaving without telling Bellamy. She's going to steal his hoodie and, by all appearances, his cat, and it's not like she can leave a note. She might not ever see him again, and the thought makes her shift, shrink, her skin going strange and furry for just a second, flickering back to her feline form like a fucking _threat_.

She definitely needs to see this witch. But after that, she's going to come back and see Bellamy.

Even for a human nose, the scent of him is overwhelming when she pulls the hoodie on. It might even be more overwhelming, because the smell isn't as strong, but it's more appealing. As a cat, she liked snuggling with him, but now she kind of wants to snuggle and then they make out. Which is another thought to be having later, or maybe never. Her hormones are probably out of whack right now. That probably happens.

The hoodie is big on her, as she hoped, not really quite long enough to be a dress, but it's the middle of the night and she's hoping she won't see anyone. All her parts are covered, and she grabs a steak knife too, just to be safe.

It's her first time going outside since Bellamy took her home, and her first time outside as a human for almost three months. Her perspective is different, and her awareness too. She wishes she could hear better, that she wasn't so conspicuous, that cars driving by wouldn't take any notice of her, like they wouldn't if she was still a cat.

She wishes she'd stolen a pair of Bellamy's shoes, while she was at it.

She jotted down the directions to the witch's house on a piece of scrap paper, but it's an hour walk, and longer because she screws up a few times. By the time she finally gets there, the sun is starting to tint the sky pink. She feels more exhausted than she has in her entire life, but it's probably just all the stress. Plus, animal-to-human transformation, and her flicker back to animal. That's got to be a strain on her body, to say nothing of her brain.

The witch's name is Luna, which seems a little on the nose, but whatever. Clarke traces the sigil for _assistance required_ on her door, and then her mother's name sigil, since Abby said she'd be getting in touch. The door glows green for a second, flashes back _welcome_ , and then opens.

The house is small and warm, welcoming. It's late summer, so being out in nothing but a hoodie hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been, but she was still getting cold and hungry and just--

She needs to talk to someone, and her first choice was too complicated.

"I assume you're Abby Griffin's daughter," says a voice. Clarke whirls to see a woman with wild red curls and piercing eyes coming down the stairs, the perfect image of an eccentric witch, except for the fluffy bathrobe she's got wrapped around herself. "Welcome back to humanity. You're still cursed."

"You can tell just by looking?"

Luna shrugs, crossing the room to the kitchen. "You have an aura. Coffee? Tea?"

Her mouth waters. "Coffee would be amazing. Sorry for waking you up."

"I keep strange hours." She grabs a pot and starts filling it. "So, tell me what happened. Your mother was upset but vague."

"Yeah, I couldn't give her a lot of information." She sighs. "I woke up and I was a cat. I panicked and left my apartment, which was stupid, in retrospect. I should have stayed and tried to get in touch with my mom from there, but at the time I was just worrying about how I was going to starve to death if I stayed there."

"I wouldn't expect anyone to be rational in this situation. It seems as if you took care of yourself well enough."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen me last month."

"And I suppose you're probably a bit cold. Let me see if I have anything for you to wear while the coffee finishes."

She comes back with pajama pants and a tank top, and Clarke gets changed in her small bathroom. She pulls Bellamy's hoodie back too, tries not to let her mind wander back to him. She didn't actually develop a crush on a guy when she was a cat, did she? That would be pathetic.

But--he's a really good guy.

By the time she's done, Luna has coffee for her, and they go to sit on the couch for the inevitable awkward conversation. 

"Your mother said you don't have any enemies," Luna says to start them off. It feels like a generous read to Clarke, but even if there are plenty of people in the world who dislike her, she still doesn't think any of them could curse her, even if they wanted to.

"None like this."

"I'm not surprised." She squints at Clarke, then puts her mug down to trace a few sigils in the air. "The strange thing is, while you _are_ cursed, I don't think the curse was placed on you."

"I don't think I get the distinction."

"I think you're collateral damage. You don't seem to have been the target, but your curse is tied to--something else. Maybe not even a curse, honestly. It's always hard when amateurs do this, it's so much harder to untangle the strings of intention. What were you doing when you turned back?"

The connection jumps out, but it doesn't make any sense. "I was staying with this guy," she says, slow. "He found me in the park a couple weeks ago. And when I thought about how much I wanted to be human so I could help him, and I turned back into a human. And then when I thought about how I probably wouldn't see him again, I kind of--flickered back to being a cat. But that doesn't make any sense!"

Luna is unruffled. "It makes a lot of sense to me."

"I'd never even met the guy before, why would my curse have anything to do with him? Or his curse with me, I guess."

"Amateur," Luna says, as if this explains everything. "When people put together their own spells, things go wrong. The magic decides what to do on its own. He needs help?" 

"I think so." It feels weird, talking about Bellamy's private issues to a stranger, but Luna doesn't know her, or Bellamy, or anything. And this has to be it, right? She somehow got turned into a cat so she could fix Bellamy's life. It doesn't make any sense, but it still somehow makes more sense than anything else. "He's been having a rough couple months, he never leaves his apartment."

"That makes sense," says Luna, nodding. "Someone--a concerned friend, a loved one--cast a poorly defined spell to get him some help, and the spell roped you into helping. If you think about not helping, the curse flares up. I could have done something better," she adds, like that's the biggest issue in this scenario. "This is so inefficient."

"So what do I have to do to break the curse?" she asks. "How do you fix someone?"

"If you bring him by, I can take a look. I assume he doesn't know about any of this."

"No, but I think I probably have to tell him." She rubs her face. " _I need to get you feeling better about your life or I'll keep turning into a cat_. No one wants to hear that."

"It might not be as bad as you think," Luna muses. "For one thing, he has someone in his life knows enough about magic to have cast this spell, so maybe he'll be more prepared for it than you think. And this might be one time where the caster's lack of training works to your advantage."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

Luna shrugs. "The magic picked you, left to its own devices. That means that whatever needs to be done, you can do it."

Despite the night she's had--despite the _three months_ she's had--she has to smile. "Yeah, I guess there's that."

*

Luna lets her use the phone to call her mom, and even gives her a ride over to the storage unit where all her stuff is being kept. She gets actual clothes that belong to her, including undergarments, which she never thought she'd miss so much, and makes sure her landlord didn't steal anything, which he didn't. With her phone and her wallet in her bag and her teeth brushed--to say nothing of some non-tuna food in her stomach--she feels (no pun intended) human again, albeit not really ready to talk to Bellamy.

Still, he's probably spent the morning tearing his hair out trying to figure out what happened to his cat. Clarke owes him some explanations. And no matter how nervous she is, she can't just _not_ see him. Even leaving aside the curse, she would regret if she never saw him again. She _likes_ him, and she wants to tell him what's going on, hear his opinions, come up with a plan together. She's never really talked to him, can't even begin to guess what that's going to look like, but she wants to find out almost as much as she's terrified of it.

Luna drops her off after lunch, and she takes a second to just breathe in a few deep breaths. She does know him, sort of. Well enough to be sure she can get him to listen.

She makes herself ring the doorbell, and, when there's no response after a minute, makes herself do it again, longer and more obnoxious. She remembers the blare of it from when he ordered takeout when she was living there; it's not a pleasant sound.

There's a thumping as he comes down the stairs, giving her a second to prepare herself, try to figure out what she can say. It's all going to sound insane, she just needs him to listen long enough she can convince him. It's not as if she doesn't have evidence. She could tell him--

The door opens and there he is, so much harder to comprehend now. She hadn't known how tall he was, really, but he has a few inches on her. His hair is messy as always, his glasses askew, and it's just--

Wow, he's _cute_. Like, really cute. Stupid cute.

His eyes flick down to the hoodie she has folded in her arms. "Can I help you?" 

"I think I'm supposed to help you." She wets her lips, trying to figure out any way to say it aside from just saying it and coming up blank. Like ripping off a band-aid, that's the only way. "Look, this is going to sound insane? But I was your cat and I want to be friends." She holds up the hoodie. "I brought this back for you."

"Huh," he says, and closes the door in her face.

Well, it's a start.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, Bellamy's cat _is_ gone. That's undeniable. And his hoodie was gone too, which he noticed mostly because it's one of Arthur's favorite places to sleep, so he checked it first when he realized the cat was missing. He'd assumed he must have put it somewhere else and forgotten, but he couldn't remember where. It hadn't been as important as looking for Arthur, who had vanished into thin air.

The doorbell starts to blare again, which isn't really a surprise. Once you've told someone that you're their cat, you're pretty much all-in on whatever it is you're doing.

Fuck, he has to listen to this one, right? It's bound to be good.

He opens the door again and there she is. She's got wavy blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, looking tired but a little amused, like she's as aware of the ridiculousness of this situation as he is.

"Seriously, Bellamy. Why would I make that up?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the door jamb. "My options are that you're a creepy stalker or that you were my cat, I know which one seems more realistic."

"You know how you named me Arthur?"

"Yeah. But a stalker could know that too."

She reaches into her back pocket and gets a wallet out. "Arthur C. Clarke. I was trying to tell you, but you picked the wrong part of the name."

It doesn't make any sense until she hands him her driver's license: Clarke Griffin. Same spelling and everything. 

"I was going to puke on something you owned but I figured it wasn't your fault. I could have tried harder to tell you."

He's starting to get a headache, but this does all kind of check out. He's not sure how a stalker would have overheard him trying to name his cat. Besides, she's cute and seems fairly socially capable; if she was some kind of deranged stalker, she probably could have come up with a better excuse to talk to him. She could have just said Arthur was her cat. He would have believed it, and possibly tried to hit on her.

Well, okay, probably not. He hasn't tried to hit on anyone in a long time. But he would have thought about it.

"Can I just come upstairs and explain?" she asks. "I'm exhausted, I was up all night."

"And you came to see me instead of going to sleep?"

"I'm homeless," she says, mouth twisting. "I got evicted because I dropped off the face of the earth for months with no forwarding address."

It's that detail that gets him, that odd shock of reality. No one ever talks about stuff like that, the oddly practical concerns of paying rent and making money in the midst of fantastical situations.

"You can come up," he says. "Just don't murder me."

"If I wanted to murder you I'd come up with a better story."

"Maybe this is part of the fun for you. Like normal murders aren't exciting enough anymore. You need the challenge to really feel it."

She snorts. "That is probably the only good reason for me to lie about being your cat."

"And if you're a murderer, it makes sense that you stole my cat to fuck with me."

"Yeah, you've really cracked this whole case wide open." She collapses onto his couch with a sigh of relief that he feels down to his toes. Whatever else is going on, she really is tired. "Sorry, it's been a long few months."

He sits down next to her, keeping a cautious distance. "How many long months, exactly?"

"Just about three. Two months before I found you."

"You found me? I found you."

"I smelled sushi and stole it from you. You weren't out looking for stray cats."

Somehow, he really is starting to believe her. "Were you looking to get adopted?"

"No. But as soon as I was, it was a relief. I wasn't the best outdoor cat."

He nods. "Okay, so--the big question."

"What the fuck?"

It surprises a laugh out of him. "That's not what I was going to say but honestly? That sums it up, yeah."

"You want the truth?"

"Has anything good ever followed that question?"

She doesn't bother responding. "Witches are real and one wants you to be happy."

"Me?" he asks.

Clarke's eyebrows go up. "That's the weird part for you?"

It does feel a little sad, now that he's said it, but it's not hard to cover that. "I don't see how you getting turned into a cat has anything to do with me."

"Oh, yeah. That's--complicated."

The story Clarke lays out isn't exactly believable, but it's not _less_ believable than anything else about this. What does concern him is that it puts the focus on _him_ , makes him a continuing part of Clarke's story. They have to keep seeing each other, which he doesn't really mind, assuming this is all true.

But that's a big assumption.

"So, if you decide not to help me, you turn back into a cat?" he finally asks. "That's the deal?"

"Apparently."

"Can you show me? Like--can you control it?"

The question seems to intrigue more than alarm her. "I don't know. I turned back last night when I was thinking we wouldn't have any reason to see each other once I was human, but I really believed it. I don't know if it'll work as a thought experiment."

"Well, I'm not going to let you hang around if you can't prove this weird fucking story is true, so--"

"So I better try?"

It doesn't sound like she necessarily believes him, but she closes her eyes like she's focusing, thinking whatever thoughts will turn her back into a cat as hard as she can.

Bellamy, in the meantime, checks his phone for the time and then decides he doesn't actually care. It's five o'clock somewhere; he could use a drink.

There is no sound when Clarke turns into Arthur, but it's followed, a split second after the fact, by her clothes dropping on top of her. The familiar tawny face pokes out from under Clarke's t-shirt and Bellamy just stares for a second. He'd thought he believed her, but he really didn't. He hadn't thought it would happen.

"Okay," he says. "We can be friends. You want a beer?"

*

"Do you think your sister could be a witch?"

Clarke asks the question halfway through their first beer, which means Bellamy isn't nearly drunk enough for it yet.

"What do you know about my sister?" he asks, with genuine curiosity. It's really hard to remember what information you gave to a cat; it wasn't like he thought she was listening.

She shifts a little. "Not a lot. You said you named her, and then--"

Anxiety sets in to his chest. "Then what?"

"I used your computer a couple times."

"As a cat?"

"I wasn't doing anything else." She let's out a breath, clearly bracing herself for his anger. "Last night, I wanted to see if my mom had emailed me back about the cat stuff, but when I got your laptop open--"

"You saw my email to O."

"Yeah. It wasn't like I didn't know something was up with you," she adds, slightly defensive.

"That's not actually comforting," he points out, and she smiles her acknowledgment but doesn't stop.

"You had me in a deserted room with nothing but family pictures in it, you never leave the house, and when people do come over they act like you're made of glass. The email just let me put the last piece together."

She's not wrong, but it does sting. Of course he knew he wasn't doing well, but he had been hiding it from most people. Monty and Miller knew, but he could downplay it, pretend he was going out more, getting less stuff delivered, having more casual human interaction.

And he had been working on it. Slowly but surely. He had been getting better. But the cat definitely knew exactly how bad it was.

"How old is she?"

"Eighteen. Ten years younger than I am."

"Big gap."

He shrugs. "It's tough, yeah. I'm not her dad, but he left when she was a baby and our mom died when I was nineteen. I still had to be a parent."

Ordinarily, he wouldn't be telling someone all this so soon, but Clarke knows how he lives, so he feels the need to justify it. He wouldn't have said he was anti-social when he was a kid, but even before his mom died, he'd been helping take care of his sister, and he just hadn't had a lot of time for people. Once he was done with school and had started working online, it was just so easy to not interact with people, except when he had to for Octavia.

"And now she's gone," says Clarke, soft. "About three months ago?"

"Right about then, yeah."

"So maybe she was worried about leaving you. Wanted to make sure you'd be taken care of."

"I still don't see how you turning into a cat does that. I know, I know, the magic picked," he says, before she can. "The magic has weird ideas about what I need."

"It did seem like you liked having a cat."

"Yeah, but apparently once the spell is satisfied you're not going to be a cat anymore, so I'm back at square one."

She worries her lip. "So, you can definitely say no to this, but--do you want a roommate?"

Despite everything, he finds himself starting to laugh. It's been a long, absurd day and it's not even dinnertime yet. There wasn't anywhere for it to go but to the girl who used to be his cat asking if she could move in. 

"Do you actually have money to pay rent?"

"I do. One of the things I did when I logged into your computer was email my rich witch mom to let her know what was happening. She cleared up most of my legal stuff and I've got a decent amount in savings, but I'm still homeless and unemployed."

"The perfect roommate."

She shrugs. "I did mention my mom is rich, right?"

"And if you don't fix me, you turn back into a cat." He scrubs his face. "Fuck, I bet this is O. She would find some bullshit magic spell online and try to put it together to make me happy."

"Like I said, I don't have to live here. But I was already living here, so that would be easiest."

From any objective standard, it's a terrible idea. He doesn't know her, she doesn't know him, part of him still thinks this whole thing is some weird scam, and a much smaller and more embarrassing part of him still wants his sister to have somewhere to come home to, if she does come home.

But he'd also been worrying about how much money he was spending on a place for just himself, thinking that he really should downsize. If he lets Clarke move in, he'll get some additional cash flow, and she'd probably agree to find a new place if Octavia ever did come back. Which she's not going to do.

"I could probably use a roommate," he admits, and Clarke smiles.

"Yeah, I thought so too."

*

 **To** : Octavia Blake (octave.of.blake@gmail.com)  
**From** : Bellamy Blake (bellamy.blake@gmail.com)  
**Subject** : Quick question  
Did you try to cast some weird spell on me before you left? Just wondering.

Hope you're doing well.

*

"So, what happened here, exactly?" Miller asks. Bellamy drafted him into helping get Clarke's stuff out of the storage unit it was in with a vague story about how she was related to Arthur's owner, but he knew that Miller was going to want more information.

"Clarke saw the sign I put up and came to check if it was her friends' cat. She didn't want to get their hopes up if she was wrong. While she was here, we got to talking, I found out she'd just moved here and was still looking for a permanent place, and it's not like I want to move, so--"

"So you just invited a stranger to move in with you?"

"I think I'm ready for some company," he says.

"Are you going to get another cat? Because if you don't, I need to come up with another excuse to hang out with your editor."

Bellamy snorts. "You mean other than mandatory hangout nights when I just happen to be meeting with him?"

"He was definitely angling to come over to see the cat more."

"And then you'd just happen to be there?"

"It's a slow burn. Don't act like you're good at relationships, I know you aren't."

He can't argue with that. "You know you could just get a cat of your own, right?"

"Yeah, but the cat seemed good for you. It gave you a reason to get out of the house. Which is really sad because the cat didn't actually leave the house. That's how shitty you were at it."

"I'm hoping the roommate will too. She's talking about us going grocery shopping together instead of just ordering off of Amazon Prime. Baby steps."

The conversation pauses as they get into Clarke's room, where she's been arranging and assembling the stuff they're bringing in. But once they've got the mattress unloaded onto Clarke's bed frame, Miller says, "What did you tell her?"

"Tell her about what?"

"Does she know you're an antisocial shut-in?"

"I'm not exactly subtle about it."

"Do you want to fuck her?"

He was expecting the question, but he still has to glare. "Jesus, it doesn't have to be about sex."

"I'm not judging, I don't care. If getting laid is your motivation for getting your life together, I'm here for it. I just want to prepare in case she doesn't want to fuck you and it just makes it worse."

"I think I'll be fine."

"You've got pretty low standards."

"Thanks for caring," he says. "It's really not about that, I promise. We just--get along."

It's not actually a lie, which is nice. The circumstances of his meeting Clarke are as bizarre as they come, but if Octavia did ask some magic to bring him a friend, the magic did a pretty good job. It's only been a day and a half, but it's been a very surreal day and a half, and he and Clarke did pretty well with it.

They buy Miller pizza for dinner and Clarke watches the two of them play video games for about ten minutes before she passes out, for which Bellamy can't blame her. She slept on the couch last night and she's still catching up from a lot of weird, residual exhaustion.

Miller looks a little smug about the way she slumps onto Bellamy after the third match, but Miller is an asshole. That's not new.

He wakes her up once Miller has gone and she stretches like a cat, even lets out a noise he swears he heard Arthur make. It's honestly kind of adorable.

"Sorry I passed out on you."

"I was sort of expecting it. You've had a pretty rough couple of days."

"Yeah, but it's not like I wasn't sleeping like eighteen hours a day before."

"Yeah, and now you have three months of stress to catch up on." He offers her a smile. "How are you doing, by the way? With everything."

She leans back and closes her eyes again. "I need to come up with a job, and we need to go to Luna and find out what breaking this curse looks like. But honestly, it could be a lot worse? At least I've got you."

His heart thuds uncomfortably. "Me?"

"Can you imagine how much this would suck if I couldn't talk to anyone about it?"

"You still have your rich witch Mom, right?"

"It's not the same." Her eyes slide shut. "She's flying out, now that she knows where I am. I'm amazed she hadn't come already."

"Yeah, couldn't she use her magic to track you or something?"

"Depends on the nature of the curse."

Witches being real should probably be the weirdest part of this, but Bellamy actually finds it soothing. He much prefers knowing there's a specific group of people who can use magic to thinking that anyone can do it if they just try hard enough.

"Does it bother you that you didn't get any powers?"

"Yes and no. Obviously it would be cool, but it's not like I did anything wrong. And I've got other skills."

He studies her for a second, just until he's sure. "Bullshit."

"Okay, yeah, it bothers me a little," she says, ducking her head. "But it is what it is."

"So, your mom's going to cure us?"

"She and Luna will take a look. They might not be able to reverse it, though. What do you think your sister would be trying to do? If it was her spell, what would the goal be?"

The answer that presents itself is immediate, obvious, and awkward. If Octavia was going to curse him for his own good, she'd be focused on his love life. She teased him about it all the time, but in a pointed, concerned way. It bothered Octavia, that he never dated, and that had really been the only reason he ever tried to date. He didn't have anything against it, but it had been more of a priority for her than it was for him. He figured it would work itself out sooner or later; his sister never had that much faith.

Clarke is watching him, apparently oblivious to the standard fairy-tale solution. She is pretty, but _true love_ seems like a bit of a stretch.

"Do you think she turned you into a cat on purpose?" he asks, delaying the inevitable for a few minutes, at least. "I really don't get that part."

"I think the spell she cast decided that was the best way to accomplish her goal." She nudges his foot. "You think she wanted us to fall in love."

"Except for the cat thing. I don't know," he adds, happy to be arguing against the theory instead of presenting it. "I know she was worried about leaving me, it could have been a lot of things."

"Why did she?" At his glare, she just shrugs. "Sorry, are we not at the point where I can ask you awkward personal questions? You've cleaned up like all my bodily fluids at this point, it's your turn to get vulnerable."

"Not blood," he says, but he's smiling. "She left because she needed to be on her own." It feels like such a simple thing to have exploded his life, but he doesn't know what it's like to be an adult and not taking care of Octavia. He barely remembers what it was like to be a _person_ not taking care of her. "She's always been independent. And I think she thought it would be good for me too. To not have to deal with her."

"So you think she was expecting you to become a recluse and cast a spell to get you out of it?"

"I was already kind of a recluse. She was probably worried I'd stop talking to anyone."

"So then the cat thing kind of makes sense." 

He raises his eyebrows. "Does it?"

"You weren't looking for a roommate, right? Or any company. You wouldn't have brought a person home. But a starving cat--"

"That actually does make a lot of sense," he admits, which is the last thing he ever wanted to say about a human being turning into a cat, but here they are.

"My mom and Luna should have some ideas. They can maybe break the spell without us having to do whatever the magic wants us to do. But--" She bites the corner of her mouth. "We could try the kiss. Just to get it out of the way."

"That's a real cure?" he asks.

"It breaks some spells, yeah. And it's easier to test than burning sage under a full moon or whatever."

"I guess." His palms go sweaty and his heart lodges in his throat. It's not a big deal. He has kissed people before. And it's not like a quick peck is a big deal. Clarke didn't say why it worked, just that it might. And even if it does work, they probably won't know this was what did it. "Might as well try it."

"Might as well." She smiles, leans in, and presses her mouth against his, quick and dry, clinical. If there is any magic in it, it doesn't present itself, no sunbursts or fireworks or Disney sparkles. Just a brief brush of lips and then it's over. "Hard to test," she says, with a crooked smile. "Since I'm not a cat anyway. So I'm going to bed."

It's the best idea he's heard all night.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

*

Bellamy's never lived with anyone but his sister, and it takes some getting used to. Clarke makes it as easy as she can, but that's a mixed blessing too. She knows when he wakes up because she remembers his alarm going off, knows when he takes his shower and what he eats for breakfast and when he meets with Monty. And it's nice that she knows all that stuff, but she knows it because she was his _cat_ , and he still feels like he's putting off a breakdown about that whole mess.

So it's kind of a relief when she says, "I don't actually know what you do for a living," at around eleven. It's nice to have a few mysteries left.

"No?"

"I know Monty is your editor and you write stuff, so I assume novelist? But I know that's not all you do. Tutoring?"

"Just editing," he says. "First it was writing papers for people, but that made me feel shitty about helping rich kids cruise through classes, so I switched over to regular editing. I work with a couple local schools, too, so I make sure I get some kids from underserved backgrounds. I help with college stuff." He has to smile. "For someone who never went to college, I've worked on a lot of admission essays."

"That's really cool."

"I'm really lucky. The only reason anyone lets me do it is name recognition."

Clarke leans against the counter with her cup of coffee, looking so natural there. "Yeah, I was wondering about that too. You've got an editor, you have to be famous enough I've heard of you."

"Maybe. What kinds of books do you like?"

"Basically everything. I keep up with sci-fi, though, and I'd definitely remember if I'd seen anything by Bellamy Blake."

"I have a pen name, yeah." She looks at him, expectant, and he kind of wishes she had already figured it out. Either she'll know him, and it'll be awkward, or she won't know him, and that'll be awkward too. There's no good outcome here. "Blake Bradbury."

From the way her eyes widen, he can tell she recognizes the name. He's been writing for a while, basically his whole adult life, but his career didn't take off until last year. He's still not used to being enough of a name that people know him.

"Do you just pick all your names from science fiction authors?" she asks. "Your pen name, your cat, your sister--"

"Octavia was actually named after Emperor Augustus's sister. I was in my classics phase."

She lets out a delighted laugh. "Wow, so you found something even dorkier to get into after you named your sister after a Roman aristocrat."

"I think it's kind of a lateral dorkiness."

"How weird are you going to feel if I tell you I like your books?"

"Really weird."

"I do, though. No wonder I liked what I saw you writing."

He snorts. "You know, a couple times I definitely thought _I swear the cat is reading over my shoulder_ , but I reminded myself that wasn't a thing."

"Always trust your instincts."

"What was your job? Before you no-showed for three months and got fired."

"Patient services at a free clinic. I'd like to get back to it, so I'll probably give the boss a call and try to explain, once I come up with an explanation. I don't really want to go to mental illness, but I was just out of communication for so long."

"Yeah, that one might not be salvageable. I'd just pretend you never had the job and find something new, honestly."

"I know." She rubs her face. "No offense, but I wish your sister had done a little more research on her spell so it didn't totally derail my life."

"If I ever hear from her again, I'll let her know. I am sorry," he adds. "I'm, uh--if there's anything I can do to help--"

"You're helping. I have somewhere to live, and now that I know you're a successful author, I won't feel as bad if I don't chip in for groceries."

"Clearly you don't get how little money successful authors can make."

She smiles, and he smiles back. "So I guess I'd better get to job-hunting."

It's actually a little nice, having someone sitting next to him on the couch. Company isn't so bad. "Yeah," he says, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "You better."

*

 **To** : Bellamy Blake (bellamy.blake@gmail.com)  
**From** : Octavia Blake (octave.of.blake@gmail.com)  
**Subject** : Re: Quick question  
Did it work?

*

Bellamy wasn't really expecting to hear from his sister at all, so of course the message comes at the absolute worst time, while they're having tea with Clarke's very intimidating mother and her equally intimidating witch friend.

In some ways, it's kind of convenient, because her response is basically taking responsibility, and he can pass that along to Abby and Luna so they'll have more information about the spell and who cast it. It's an excellent data point and will absolutely help them untangle this whole mess.

On the other hand, those three words are the first communication he's had from his sister since her farewell note. Part of him had wondered if he'd ever hear from her again, as melodramatic as it felt. It's not like she's going to be eighteen and done with him for the rest of her life. She just needs some space to breathe.

Still, it's hard to imagine how she could have handled it worse.

Clarke's shoulder presses up against his and he pulls his attention away from his phone back to the conversation, which is apparently waiting on him. "Sorry, uh--my sister responded to my email. It sounds like it was her."

"What did she say?" asks Abby. He can see the family resemblance between her and her daughter, gets exactly how Clarke came from her mother, but he thinks Clarke is a much better version of the same idea. Definitely the version he prefers.

"Nothing helpful. She just asked if it worked."

"Can you call her?" asks Luna. "I'd like to hear exactly what she did, in her own words."

"She didn't take her cell with her. But if I give her your number, she might call you."

Clarke's frown deepens. "She didn't even leave a number?"

"It's not really running away if you leave a number."

"I think as long as you run away, it counts."

"Fine, just give me her email address," says Luna, with a wave of her hand like she's dismissing the whole conversation. "I'll get in touch directly, that would be easier. She never had formal training?"

"Not as far as I know."

"She'll need it. If she pull off a spell like this on her own, her abilities need to be tempered. It would have taken a lot of power to do this, and that kind of power takes discipline."

"Oh good," he says, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "If I'd only I'd known witches were real so I could have gotten her lessons."

If Luna notices his mood, she ignores it. "It's not too late. Wherever she is, there will be a coven there to help her. And as long as Clarke stays with you, her condition shouldn't be an issue."

Abby looks up from her phone with a frown. "Clarke shouldn't have to live here just because--"

"Mom," says Clarke, gentle. "I don't mind living here. It's not like I have anywhere else to go, anyway."

"You could come back home with me. It would be easier for you to get a fresh start without anyone knowing you disappeared for three months."

"Moving back home with you isn't a fresh start. I got the job out here because I wanted to be on my own."

"And look what happened!"

That one seems unfair to Bellamy; it's not like Clarke did anything wrong. She wasn't even the target of the spell. If anyone fucked this up, it was him.

Clarke is apparently on the same page. "You aren't seriously trying to tell me it's my fault that Bellamy's sister cast a spell without doing her due diligence, right? We're innocent bystanders."

"I'd just feel better if you came home. I'm sure Bellamy isn't thrilled about this either," she adds, which seems like a low blow. "If I can just break the curse, he can be done with this."

"She's going to pay me rent," he says, mild. "I don't mind."

"And unless you have a plan to break the curse, this is all moot," says Luna. "If Clarke went back with you, you'd be taking her in a pet carrier."

That settles the argument and the conversation moves on to other things, but Bellamy's mind snags there. He does believe Clarke wants to say here, in this general area, and he even believes she doesn't mind living with him. But even though he knows she's still technically cursed, it's easy to feel like it's better now, like she's fine.

This could go on for years, right? If O's spell was crappy enough, maybe Luna and Abby won't be able to fix it, and they'll manage to forget until Clarke tries to leave him and she can't.

Octavia left him behind and her parting shot was making sure someone else was stuck with him. 

Abby gives them a ride home in her rental car, and Bellamy is only a little worried that she's going to lock them in and forcibly abduct them. It seems a little blunt for a witch, though; surely she could charm them if she wanted to. But she must not want to do anything. She drops them off at his place, gives her daughter a hug, and sets up a lunch with Clarke tomorrow, from which she hopefully won't kidnap her. 

Not that it would be Bellamy's problem if she did. But still. It's the principle of the thing.

"So, how are you doing?" Clarke asks, once they're upstairs and comfortable on the couch. 

"How am _I_ doing?" he asks.

"What, do you not have an emotional state?"

"I was more worried about you. That was a whole lot of nothing in terms of making sure you don't turn into a cat again."

"Yeah, but like Luna said, as long as I'm here, I should be fine."

"You shouldn't have to stay here for the rest of your life or turn into a cat. That's some fairy-tale curse princess bullshit."

Her smile is slightly exasperated. "No one said anything about the rest of my life. All we have to do is figure out what your sister did and how to fix it. Besides, it's not like this is a bad place to be."

"Still. I feel like I haven't even apologized."

"You don't have anything to apologize for. Your sister does, but honestly, I'm guessing she had no idea what she was doing either. It sucks, but it wasn't like--" She shrugs. "I'm not mad at you. You've been great."

"I guess I was expecting you to be mad at the universe."

"I was. But that was pretty early. Right now I'm happy to be human with a roof over my head and a plan for what happens next."

"And that plan is what exactly?"

"Luna gets in touch with your sister, we either get rid of the curse or break it, and then we're back to normal."

"And you're good with that."

"Did you have another plan? Because criticism isn't a suggestion."

He has to smile. "No, I guess not."

"So we're good. Which brings me back to how you're doing. You looked pretty freaked when you got that email."

"Honestly, I didn't think she was even going to respond. And now I can't stop wondering--" Clarke is still watching him, curious and concerned, and he lets himself just vent. "It's been months, maybe I could have gotten in touch with her sooner. Maybe she would have replied."

"Maybe. Maybe she just replied because she didn't actually know if she was a witch. And, honestly? It doesn't matter. You didn't email her. Whatever would have happened didn't. All that matters is what you do now."

"Inspiring."

"Honest."

"I guess." He smiles. "Anything you want me to ask her for you?"

"How to fix it."

"I guess that was a gimme." 

"Yeah, but I still want you to ask. I hope she keeps talking to you," she adds, a small, kind wish.

He'd say he got lucky with her, but he didn't. She was hand-picked for him by some arcane force, and the arcane force did a good job. And Clarke's right, it's not like he can go back in time and do things differently, can't stop his sister from leaving or stop her from casting the spell, can't keep Clarke from ever having been put in this position.

All he can do is live with the life he's got now. Just because he doesn't deserve this good fortune doesn't mean he doesn't have it. He can enjoy it, as long as he's not an asshole about it. He and Clarke can be friends, and he can be happy to know her.

"Me too," he says. "You want to watch a movie?"

*

The spell is, apparently, kind of a mess.

"Which is actually pretty cool, if you ignore the whole cat thing!" O says, bright. Three months and a curse is apparently long enough that he's allowed to have her phone number, as long as he doesn't call too often. He assumes if he tries, she'll just start screening him. "I mean, obviously, it sucks and I'm sorry. But Luna says it was really good for a total novice!"

"I'm proud of you." He rubs his face. "I still don't get why you even tried it."

"Come on, why wouldn't I? I found a website with all these spells, I wanted to see if it worked."

"And you tried it on me."

"I said I was sorry! I thought it would help you make friends, not turn a stranger into a cat."

"Well, we're friends now," he says. "So if you can tell your magic to leave her alone, that would be great."

"It's too complicated." Despite her contrition, she can't keep her excitement in check. "Luna said she'd never seen anyone weave spells together like this before. It's got _layers_."

"You get this isn't good news for me, right?"

"You'll be fine. I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to be alone. I figured it would be good luck, even if it didn't work."

"Instead it didn't work and it was bad luck."

"Not for you. I thought you liked her."

"That's not really the point, O."

"Luna seems pretty good. She'll fix it."

"The moral of this story is still not that you did a good thing."

"I never said that. I didn't know I was doing _anything_. I'll be careful from now on. I'm learning! But I did it and it worked, so--that means you have a friend."

"For now, yeah."

"I'm sorry for the other stuff too," she says, her voice so soft he can barely hear her. "For leaving like I did. I didn't know what else to do."

"I'm sorry you had to leave. If you ever want to come back--"

"I know where to find you. I'll be in touch if I figure anything out about the spell."

"Yeah."

"And you can keep me posted. You don't have to never talk to me again or anything."

"You didn't exactly make that clear." As soon as the words are out, he regrets them. He's allowed to be pissed, but not passive aggressive and guilt-tripping. He's a grown up. "Listen, I just want to do what you need me to do. I thought you didn't want to talk to me, so I didn't call."

"I didn't," she admits. "But--I miss you. I don't want to lose you, I just couldn't stay there."

"I know. So--we'll be in touch."

"Yeah. And tell your friend--"

"Clarke," he supplies.

"Tell Clarke I really am sorry. I'm working with a friend of Luna's here, we're trying to figure out what I did and how to fix it."

"I'll tell her. Talk to you soon."

"Bye, Bell."

Once the line is dead, he collapses onto his back, eyes closed, breathing in and out on his bed for a long moment. It went well. So much better than he was expecting. He can call her, be in touch. She misses him.

Finally, he gets up and goes to the living room, where Clarke is on her laptop. She knew the call was happening and asked where he wanted her to be; he'd lied and said in here. What he really wanted was backup, but it felt like a lot to put on her. 

She smiles. "Hey, how did it go?"

"Good. Really good. Kind of unbelievably good, honestly. She apologized."

"Did she do it on purpose?"

"Yes and no. She didn't think it would work, it just made her feel better, I think. Like she wasn't really leaving me."

"Except she didn't know she was actually doing anything." She taps her jaw. "Do you think I need to act more like her? More of a sister vibe?"

It's hard to imagine Clarke having a sister vibe; she's wearing a tank top and he's definitely getting distracted. "I doubt it. But I assume they'll keep us posted. She did say she was sorry," he adds. "It sounded like she meant it."

"As long as she learns not to do it again, I'll live." Her smile is a little wicked. "Plus she's on Luna's radar now, _and_ my mom's. I wouldn't want to be her if she tries it again."

"Yeah, I think we've got a long line of people who'll kick her ass."

"Definitely." She pauses, maybe trying not to ask, but the question slips out, soft. "So, there's no plan to fix me?"

"Not yet."

"Okay." Her smile is mostly convincing. "But I can keep living here, right?"

"Yeah, of course. For as long as you need to."

"So as soon as we fix this, I have thirty days to vacate?" she teases. 

He did assume as soon as it was better, she'd be gone. Even if she likes him now, he's not sure it's going to last if they're forced to stay together for months or--god forbid--years.

"I'm not kicking you out. How do you think we'd tell if it was fixed?" he adds, his curiosity genuine. "You're already not a cat."

"I keep hoping I'll just--feel it, I guess? But I think I have to just check in with Luna every couple weeks and make sure nothing's changed."

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. "It's really annoying you won't let me apologize for this."

"Apologize for which part, exactly?"

"Not teaching my sister to not cast weird spells she finds on the internet?"

She laughs her surprised, delighted laugh, exactly the one he was hoping for. He likes making her laugh. "You know what, yeah, you can apologize for that. That one is on you."

"I'm sorry," he says, and her smile really does make him feel better.

"You're forgiven."

*

In the absence of any concrete plan for what they can do, he and Clarke just fall into just living their lives. She manages to find a job she likes, and he misses her when she leaves for the day, but she doesn't work that far away, so he starts meeting her for lunch, and then she wants to go to the movies and he goes with her, or she needs backup when she goes for drinks with her new coworkers, and he's not going to say no. 

"You know you're not obligated to hang out with me," she tells him one night, and he definitely does know that. He hangs out with her because he likes her, which is honestly so much worse. 

Octavia keeps on not mentioning love as a factor in the spell she cast, and he keeps resisting the urge to ask her or any of the other witches about it. He doesn't need to encourage them. Miller's already got the _hey, you're into your roommate_ teasing covered, and that's more than enough of that for him. At some point, they'll break the curse, and then he can see what Clarke thinks of him without her humanity being on the line.

It's definitely not how he expected his life to look six months ago, or even five months ago, after Octavia left. He didn't think he'd be doing so well.

Which probably explains why he wakes up one Saturday morning with an unfortunately familiar cat meowing in his face. His streak of semi-good luck had to end at some point, so it might as well end with a bang.

"Oh fuck," he says, rolling over onto his back. "What the fuck?" 

Clarke meows at him, somehow managing to sound both irritated and exhausted. Not that he blames her. If he woke up as a cat, he'd be pissed. Waking up as a cat _again_ , after he thought he had the problem under control, would make him homicidal.

"I know," he says. "I know. We'll find Luna, she can tell us--fuck, I don't know. Did you do anything weird last night? Did I?" He rolls out of bed and checks his phone, like he's expecting Octavia to have texted an update or something, but her just has the usual emails and notifications, nothing that offers any answers. "Let me just get dressed. This was less weird when I thought you were just a cat. Did you ever watch me get naked?"

She doesn't respond, but he's not really looking for an answer. He saw her kind of naked when she turned from human to cat that one time, so they're even regardless. These are just about the most extenuating circumstances possible.

"If you were thinking about leaving, that's cool," he says, kicking off his pajamas and tugging on clean jeans. "If you need to not be here, we'll figure out how to make it work. If you want to--"

She butts her head against his leg and gives him an irritated meow, so he picks her up and scratches her head, sighing. "I'm trying to help. I don't want you to lose your life for another few months. So we'll just--we'll figure it out. Luna will get you back to normal."

Apparently it's not what she was hoping to hear, because she wriggles out of his arms and bounds into the living room, leaving him to pull on his shirt and follow her. She's pawing at his iPad, trying to get it to unlock, and he grabs it and gets the notes app going for her.

Obviously, if he had his way, he wouldn't have wanted Clarke to ever turn back into a cat, but it is kind of fun to actually know she's the cat. He'd assumed that Arthur's occasional quirks were just because cats are weird, but now, as he watches Clarke trying to type up a message, paws tripping over autocorrect errors, he can easily see all the things she did because she was a human.

"Nightmare?" he offers, as she hisses at the keypad. It says _mogtm_ , but he saw what she was going for.

She nods.

"You turned back into a cat because of a nightmare?" She starts to type again, and he does his best to interpret before she starts actually scratching it. "Don't need Luna?" he guesses, at what has autocorrected to _donut near like_. 

Another nod.

"Okay, what do you need? Don't tell me you want to stay a cat."

She goes slowly now, picking out each key with her paw, so careful. If he'd been filming this, it definitely would have gone viral. This is _adorable_.

And then he sees the actual word, simple and careful, both clear and confusing all at once: _you_.

"Me? What do I need to do?"

 _Keep me_.

"I'm not going to throw you out, Clarke. I'm not taking you to Luna and leaving you there, I know you have to--"

She sticks her head under his hand, purring hard, and he looks back at the iPad, trying to put it together. She needs him to keep her, and she doesn't need Luna's help. She had a bad dream.

"I don't know what you're worried about," he admits, scratching under her chin. "I'm here for you. For as long as you want my help, you've got it. I'll do whatever you need." She nips his finger gently. "You have me, okay? You don't need me, you've got me. I'm not going anywhere."

It feels inadequate, but it must not be, because all at once his lap is full of naked girl, Clarke staring at him with wide, blue eyes.

"That was it?" he asks, keeping his eyes on her face with effort.

"I got in my head."

"About what, exactly?"

She slides off his lap, finds the hoodie he has once again left crumpled on the couch and pulls it on while he politely averts his eyes. "What happens after I'm cured and you want your life back. I guess it was--" She shrugs. "Kind of a _I'll never seen him again_ spiral."

"After you got cured?" he asks, blank.

"Yeah."

"You don't need to be here after you get cured," he says with a frown. "Like I said, I'm not going to kick you out, but--"

"I think you need to want me to stay," she says, soft. "If you don't want that, we're going to need to figure out another way to fix this. Which is fine, it's a good data point, but I think that's where it's getting hung up. You need to want me around too or it doesn't work."

"Of course I do," he says, at a total loss. "Fuck, Clarke, if I had my way you'd never leave."

She shakes her head, smile a little exasperated. "I wasn't planning to. That's how I turned back in the first place, Bellamy. Wanting to be with you."

He feels very slow, but it is before nine a.m. on a Saturday and he hasn't had any coffee _and_ his roommate woke him up in cat form and is now trying to have a very serious conversation that he's not quite aware enough to follow. "If all I have to do is want you to stay, the curse should already be broken." He rubs his face. "I just don't want you to get stuck here, that's it. I don't see why it's--"

She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him in for what is, technically, their second kiss, but it doesn't really feel like the first one counted. There's a kiss and then there's _kissing_ , and this is definitely Clarke _kissing_ him. And he's almost too tired to kiss her back, but--

Well, he's not going to miss out on this.

She's back in his lap by the time she pulls back and he's trying to decide where to take her for step two, so it takes him a second to realize she's talking. "I figure the kiss works better if we're in love."

"And we are?"

"Close enough." 

He wets his lips. "We could try it again, make sure it really stuck."

She laughs and nuzzles his neck. "Yeah, you can't be too careful."

"If you turn back into a cat, I'm going to kill my sister."

"Good plan," she says. "I'll help."

*

That afternoon, they go to Luna and confirm that some part of hooking up was enough to break the curse, even if Clarke is convinced it wasn't really the answer.

"I don't think your sister was trying to get you laid."

"Clearly you haven't met my sister."

"You know I haven't." She smiles. "I do think what did it was just--us wanting to be together and admitting it. It didn't have to be a romance thing."

"This is more efficient, though." He wets his lips. "We're sure it's gone, right? Don't get me wrong, I really like you, but if we ever have a fight and break up, I'm going to feel really shitty if it turns you into a cat."

"Maybe the fact that the spell is broken means we're never going to break up." He gives her a look, and she grins. "Or not. But Luna could tell just by looking at me that the curse wasn't broken last time, she definitely knows that it works. I can't believe you weren't going to admit you liked me."

"I didn't want to be shitty. You didn't sign up for this."

"Neither did you. You wanted a cat, not a girlfriend."

"Just because I didn't know girlfriend was an option."

She leans into his side, warm and close, and even though he can't see her face, he knows she's smiling. "I was thinking about that."

"Being my girlfriend?"

"Being your cat."

"I really don't need you to be my cat. I'm good."

"I figured we could maybe get another cat. I know how much you liked Arthur. And there are so many more sci-fi authors we could name a new cat after."

It does sound kind of nice. Maybe he's still asleep, and this is all some dream. Maybe none of this happened at all. It doesn't seem possible that his sister's homebrew spell turned out this well. It should have blown up in her face, just to teach her a lesson.

But apparently it didn't, so he might as well enjoy it.

"We already live together and now we're getting a pet?" he teases. "This is moving pretty fast."

"When you know, you know," she says, grinning. "So, cat?"

"Cat. But we're bringing it back to Luna to make sure it's not a person before we get too attached."

"Deal," she agrees. "Let's go."


End file.
